Courting the Corporal. Heather McCorkle
Fergusson said.
As if he knew exactly what Fergusson’s words meant, Lincoln’s fluffy tail curled up into a half moon and wagged furiously as he trotted to catch up.
Instead of the smile he expected, a scowl greeted him as she rose. “That hardly seems wise. The journey surely cannot be safe for a pup.”
Laughing, Fergusson turned the bend in the aisle. “Ma’am, the journey isn’t safe for us.” No sense in sugarcoating it.
She made a soft grunt that he could only interpret as defiance.
The big crème-colored nose of his buckskin gelding came over the stall door as he approached. The horse’s eyes slid closed as he scratched beneath its long black forelock.
“You expect me to ride that big brute? It looks to me as though he is more interested in sleeping than crossing America,” Catriona’s amused voice came from behind him.
At that, he had to laugh. “He sleeps when given the opportunity because he knows the amount of work that will be asked of him when he is awake. Unlike your thoroughbred there who would lose its wind in the morning and not be able to run from the wolves nipping at her heels in the afternoon.”
Ignoring the gasp she let out, he moved to the next stall and clucked at the horse within to draw it to him. A gelding with a dark red head broken up by a long white blaze down its face poked its nose over the door. Unlike his own horse, this one’s coat was a patchwork of white, black, and dark red.
“A painted mustang?” Catriona exclaimed. Her tone wasn’t derisive as he had thought it would be. Instead, it sounded almost fearful. Peering from the horse to him through narrowed eyes, she placed her hands on her hips. “You expect me to ride an Indian pony? Aren’t those things as savage as the people they come from?” Interest hid behind the words; he could see it in her eyes.
Eyebrows rising at her, he absently stroked the horse’s forehead. “It seems you have much to learn about both.”
He opened the stall door and stepped inside.
“Pardon me?” she demanded.
He almost bowled her over as he led the horse out into the aisle. “Not until such pardon has been earned, ma’am.”
Huffing, she stepped aside, shying back from the horse who noted her presence only with a lazy sideways glance.
“Mustangs are the most sure-footed horses I’ve ever come across, and they have the good sense most of your ‘acceptable’ breeds lack.”
Delicate red brows drew low over her eyes as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and watched him walk to the tack room. Though her collar buttoned all the way to her neck, the clinging fabric of her top outlined the swell of her breasts nicely enough to distract him. Shaking the effects of her body off, he entered the room and lit the lamp waiting on a table beside the door. A few moments later her soft footsteps sounded on the wooden floor behind him.
He handed her a bridle that looked like it would fit the horse. Drawing back, she scoffed at it. “A snaffle bit for a mustang? Do you really think that will do?”
This time it was he who glared at her. “Aye, ’tis all he needs. And you still need to have soft hands with him.”
The look of indignation faded a bit and behind it he saw what he thought might be pain. “My hands are always soft on the bit. I’m gentle with horses,” she said quietly.
Something about the way she said the words made him look harder at her. Yes, it was definitely pain peeking through her guarded eyes. The mortar in the walls around his heart lost some of its solidity, and he hated it. “I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t. Me apologies.” He turned back to the tack and steeled himself. “I recommend taking a saddle you don’t mind parting with. We’ll have to trade it at the leather shop in Omaha for a suitable Spanish saddle.”
She groaned. “Must I really ride in one of those ungainly looking things?”
“English saddles are designed to carry only you. The ones used out West are designed to carry much more.”
Her gaze flitted to the right, landing on one of her saddles. She moved to pick it up, but he grabbed it before she could and started out the door, leaving her to get the saddle pad. On one hip he balanced the saddle while patting a large red patch on the mustang’s neck. As she positioned the saddle pad, he did his best not to watch how her coat pulled up, revealing the snug breeches hugging her rear. He failed utterly.
“A Spanish saddle is also bigger, distributing weight better across the horse’s back for long rides. ’Tis more comfortable for both you and him, trust me,” he said.
The moment she stepped back, he swung her old English saddle onto the horse’s back, adjusted the pad, and began cinching it up. Much to his surprise, she grinned. “You’re the expert.” Not a bit of sarcasm touched her voice. It made him suspicious. The excitement in her eyes explained it, though.
“What are their names?” she asked.
He scratched the nose of the crème-colored gelding as it poked its head out the stall again. “This here is Ayegi.”
“A unique name to be sure. Not Irish or English. ’Tis native perhaps?” she prodded.
“Indeed, Cherokee to be exact,” he admitted.
Her eyes widened with interest. “Truly? What does it mean?”
The memory made him smile. “Awake.”
She all but beamed in return, the look transforming her face into a thing of such beauty it brought to mind the faery tales of his childhood again. The way she had of turning his mind to something pleasant disturbed him. It made it hard to keep the walls up that kept her out.
“An interesting name, to be sure. Why on Earth would he be named that?” she asked.
With a lift of his chin, he indicated her mount. “Because his name is Galiha. It means asleep in Cherokee.”
Her brows scrunched together and one rose. While a bit odd, the look transformed her from otherworldly to adorable. “Odder still,” she said.
He laughed at her expression as much as at the memory. “Aye, but truly, ’tis me fault. That wasn’t really their names, but the way the Cherokee man described them to me when I traded for them.”
Those alluring blue eyes widened, drawing him in like a moth doomed to get scorched. “You traded with the natives? Why? Aren’t they dangerous?”
Instinct screamed at him to shut the conversation down. But he couldn’t bring himself to, not when it clearly delighted her so much.
“During the war I learned how hardy and reliable their horses were. I knew they’d be perfect for escorting people across the territories. As for dangerous…” He shrugged. “All men are dangerous. These particular natives were a lot less so than others.”
A terrible darkness flashed in her eyes. The look made him want to take the words back more than anything in the world. He scrambled for something, anything to rectify the mistake. “These Cherokee were on a reservation, so they were peaceful, cooperative. They were a sight to see, for certain.”
He couldn’t get soft and sympathetic now. No matter what she’d been through in her soft high society life, it wouldn’t compare to what she was about to undertake.
As he took the bridle from her and adjusted it to fit the horse, he shook his head. “This’ll not be a pleasant outing. I hope you understand the hardships that lay ahead,” he said.
Excitement still shining in her eyes, she met his gaze. “They’re much better than those that lay behind, I assure you.”
With a shake of his head, he steeled himself for what had to be said. He would not spare her his customary lecture because she was Ashlinn’s sister-in-law. If anything, he owed it to her that much more. Embarking on such a journey unprepared